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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28162287">False Constellations</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bean_me_up/pseuds/bean_me_up'>bean_me_up</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alex is a lighthouse keeper, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, M/M, Many Fantasy elements including a demon or two, Music, Playing fast and loose with Neathy geography, canon-friendly deaths and undeaths, fallen london AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:29:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,558</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28162287</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bean_me_up/pseuds/bean_me_up</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Decades ago, Roswell was dragged down into Hell by bats, making it the sixth city to reside in the Neath.</p>
<p>Now, mysterious shards of glass with symbols dancing across the surface are raining down on an unsuspecting city, and everyone's holding a piece of the puzzle, whether they know it or not.</p>
<p>A Fallen London AU, written for the Roswell New Mexico Big Bang 2020<br/>__________________<br/>Michael, Max, and this new Mysterious Stranger, Alex, huddle in the back booth of the tavern. Michael glances furtively around before pulling out his piece of colored glass and sliding it over to Alex.</p>
<p>Alex reaches out a gentle hand and cautiously brushes the pad of his finger against the smooth surface. It reacts immediately, lighting up in a multicolored glow, the symbols standing out in gold against it.</p>
<p>"You've been touched!" Michael exclaims softly, watching the dancing symbols in awe.</p>
<p>"Well," says the Mysterious Stranger -- Alex -- eyeing up Michael with a sharp look. "Not yet."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alex Manes &amp; Kyle Valenti, Isabel Evans &amp; Max Evans &amp; Michael Guerin, Max Evans/Liz Ortecho, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Roswell New Mexico Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Comingling of Radiances</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>For one night a year, the streets </span>
  <em>
    <span>sing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael slips through the market, dodging festival-goers and vendors alike with practiced ease. By now, the Festival of the Night Jasmine is in full swing, musicians playing joyful tunes on small stages scattered around Main Street, merchants selling flowers and trinkets in every color imaginable, brightly lit candles adorning any flat surface and a few more besides. The tents protect the revelry from the winds--picking up now, slowly but surely working their way up to a harsh and relentless squall. It doesn't matter. He doesn't intend to be outside for much longer, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He picks a stall at random and buys a small cluster of jasmine blossoms, strung together on silver twine. Tipping his hat brim down and sliding a dull copper coin to the vendor, he grabs the delicate flowers and tucks them safely away in a concealed pocket of his cloak. The fragrance wafts up, mingling with the floral, spicy scent of the night market. By morning, the market will be gone--vendors packed up, musicians sleeping off their drunken revels, festival-goers trading their rich, colorful silks for more appropriate daily attire--with nothing but scattered flower petals on the street left behind. The petals will be trodden underfoot for a few days before they melt back into the Earth or find their way to a gutter to be washed away with the next rain.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The flowers come around once a year, blooming overnight then falling off the plants by the next day.  In a world where most of the vegetation is fungal, any non-mushroom growth merits a celebration.  A fête for things that are new and beautiful and stand out from the rest, however short-lived the blossoms might be.  Some smuggled plant from the Surface, genetically modified by some plucky Observatory scientist, is responsible for the whole party covering the City’s streets.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He keeps his head down and his steps fast as he turns left down an alleyway festooned with sparkling light, bits of broken mirror in the lanterns catching candle glow and tossing it haphazardly across any available surface, including Michael himself. Exactly one hundred and seventeen paces from the main road, he finds the door he's looking for: deep sapphire blue, inlaid with little silver bells that chime in the wind. He takes a deep breath and shoves it open, letting the music and laughter and revelry wash over him for a moment before stepping inside and letting the door shut with a decisive jingle.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The party inside is in full swing, the hall filled to the brim with people robed in rich fabrics and shiny jewelry, drunk on watered-down Greyfields wine and Honey-Flecked Absinthe. Michael avoids both options, preferring to keep his head attached and his feet firmly on the ground. Plus, mushroom-based wines have never been to his taste. He snags a clear glass off a passing server's tray instead, sniffing to ensure it's the all-too-familiar Sapphire-Demesne Gin. He's not entirely ready to have this conversation sober, but he'd rather not be wildly hallucinating like the rest of the party. He knows he is not like the other citizens of the Fallen City, and the secrets he keeps are far too important to risk for a night of escape into swirling visions.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael downs the contents of his glass, grimacing slightly at the burn, wishing for the far smoother potency of the Elixir he'd taken to brewing for himself after reverse-engineering the formula from the remains of the supply he was found with. Moonshine is a respected trade around these parts, even if the stuff he concocts is fatal (or, at least, as fatal as anything is down in the Neath) to all but three. He snags a second glass of the gin, drinks it all in one practiced swallow, then sets off to find his siblings.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Decorated Captain Alex Manes is actively divorcing himself from any and all sources of pain in his life. He leaves behind the bruises and cruel words from his father, choosing to guard light rather than Liberate the dark. The Forces of the Fallen City, lauded by those of society and renown and feared by the denizens of the distant lands beyond the shores of the City, still tasks itself with maintaining a functioning fleet. Alex tasks himself with maintaining a functioning lighthouse in the far reaches of the City, an aging tower above a stormy sea, shining ferocious light to warn zailors away from certain death. As a child, he feared the sea, its tumults and turbulences, the sheer power of the waves, pulled by unseen forces. Now, he finds comfort in it. The gray, roiling water below him is as far from the glaring sun and abrasive sand of his left-behind life as possible. The Sands had demanded too much of him, and now he has no nostalgia for the sunshine or smooth slope of ever-changing dunes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Now, as the solitary keeper of the Lighthouse at Turquoise Point, he finds himself free in ways he could never imagine before. The desolate surroundings, nothing around for miles but the battered rock and the angry zee and the one Sunless Cypress along the jetty, mean that no one disturbs him. He's lived too much to miss the bustle of the City.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight, with the slashing rain, he expects sleep will be elusive, so he brews himself a cup of Halcyon Tea and settles in with a quill and ink. The rain provides a rhythm to his writing, and though he knows, in certain circles, he has made a name for himself as the Enigmatic Librettist, the songs that flow from his soul to his pen do not seem to relate to one another. Others, the musicians of the Glorytroth, librettists and poets and pianists alike, write operas, stories that flow from beginning to end, closing with tragedy or triumph or romance or madness, but ending nonetheless. He writes and writes but the songs in his journal seem to be distinct from one another. Short snippets of lives, little peeks into windows, but nothing complete, nothing he can put on a stage. Not that he'd want to.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His journal warms as he writes, as per usual. He'd taken care to fireproof it early in his life, and while that had been protection against his father and brothers, the words themselves have also tried to char the pages from the inside out. He's not sure what's special about the lyrics he pens, but everything burns. The pages, his eyes, his hands. He's used to it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He writes about a comingling of radiances, of twin suns, burning, blinding bright. There are words about being pulled together, gravity, inescapable event horizons. It doesn't all make sense, but they feel right, like they're the things that need to be said.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He's deep into his web of words when a pounding breaks the relative tranquility. He blows smoke off his quill, then grabs his crutch and makes his way down the rickety stairs to the door at the base of the lighthouse. The pounding continues, desperate and hurried, but ceases abruptly when he flings the heavy wooden door open.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Alex?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Predictably, Max is the easiest to find. He is charming as befits a gentleman of his class and station, but as reclusive as his occupation as a writer suggests. He's by the bar tucked into the far corner, nursing a Nightshade Whiskey and inking something into a growing stack of napkins. Michael is proud of his brother for making a name for himself as a writer. However, the stack of napkins implies a forthcoming publication, and he is less than enthused at the prospect of having to read another few hundred pages of a broody protagonist yearning for a long-lost love. The Gazette had dubbed him 'The Wistful Wordsmith' and, well, Michael can't exactly argue with that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He approaches with gentle footsteps to not disturb the writer, then when close enough, playfully knocks his elbow. Max startles, the pen streaking a smear of ink across the napkin in front of him. Michael dances out of his reach, choosing instead to steal his drink from a safe distance with a stealthy application of his telekinesis. This earns him a glare, but he just takes a sip and waits.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Well," says Max, mildly irritated. "What is it?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael grins and pulls up his bag to shake in Max's face. "Let's find Iz."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max rolls his eyes with a huff, but starts to gather his napkins.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dr. Kyle Valenti is wistful for a sun he's never actually seen. Born to a fallen City, he's lived under the light of the Mountain for his entire life. Yet, after spending years of the study among the gleaming rose-hued towers of the Arbor, he dreams about a sun in the heavens that warms his skin in a way that the artificial glow of the Cavern ceiling could never manage.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He very rarely makes house calls, and wishes he could at least say the few housecalls he does make are welcome, but he can't. Regardless, his sense of duty propels him forward, and he catches a transport by the station in the Veilgarden, heading out to the sea. Of course, the transport doesn't take him directly there, his feet have to do the rest. Still, after a half hour spent squished somewhere between a Rubbery Man who was far too silent and a coolly imperious professor from the University that was anything but, the open space is nice. The storm is rolling in, the rain picking up, and the clouds obscure the False Constellations from view. They're not real stars, just blobs of phosphorescence on the cavern that houses the Fallen City and the others before it. But Kyle missed the familiar twinkle when he was away in the Arbor of the Roses, just like he misses it now. A while later, just as the rain is getting unbearable, he reaches the rickety wooden path leading up to the Turquoise Point Lighthouse.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hates it here.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He'd grown up in the heart of the Fallen City, spent time at the Poplars Boardwalk and visited Faircrag Docks as a child, but the Lighthouse is nothing like the Boardwalk. From his youth, he can remember playful waves, colorful crowds, games and laughter and the gleaming bits of Captured Light and Memory Glass that festooned the tents. Here, at the Lighthouse, the zee turns angry, crashing her displeasure against the rocky shore. Even in rare times of calm, fog snatches the ground away from the light, shrouds everything under a blanket of mist.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle hurries up the slick boards of the jetty, glad of the sturdy blue Kingscale boots he had thrown money at months ago when he secured his position as a surgeon in the City. He adjusts the strap of his bag then knocks gently on the door. It's a strange hour of night, but he's hiding from clocks due to prior disagreements, so this may be just as well. The door swings open to reveal someone different. He had indeed come here to see a Manes, but he had expected the youngest, his childhood friend with a penchant for living in the far reaches of the Neath and ignoring his own health. Instead, he sees his older brother, a Zailor, last he recalled. Kyle gently steps past him, looking for Alex before giving up and acknowledging Gregory instead with a nod and a raised eyebrow. It's Alex's language more than his, but it works fine in getting Gregory to wring his hands and start talking.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Since the City's Fall, the Devils of Hell have quietly wreaked havoc in silent and insidious ways. They purchase souls, among other pursuits, and operate in the shadows where few know to look. Alex knows his father sold his soul to a Devil years ago. Sergeant Jesse Manes' eyes glint with an emptiness now, had looked empty since a few days before Alex's mother had left without a second glance for her four sons. It suits him. Cold and emotionless, the Sergeant Manes' eyes match his temperament. He had marched four sons into the Forces, and had stood cooly observing their careers ever since.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And, according to Gregory, seated on the soft, worn couch in the lighthouse, observing isn't all he had done. Turns out, Devils don't do favors, but they're always open to a spirited negotiation.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They find Isobel on the balcony overlooking the dancing. She turns at the sound of their footsteps, gauzy georgette silk swirling around her. She taps a blue-polished nail against her flute of something bubbly with a sigh. Probably the sparkly imported fruit wine from the Surface, not the mushroom stuff that douses most of the Neath.  She’s got the funds for it. "What is it, boys?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael and Max both freeze, but Isobel just rolls her eyes. Michael pulls the string of flowers out of his cloak, holding it up like an offering.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Not too tight," Isobel says, offering him a slender wrist. There's another string of flowers tied to it already, from Max, probably, jasmine with globes of amaranth woven in. The flowers complement her midnight blue dress perfectly, silver cords matching the metallic appliques floating their way up from the hem.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Happy Festival, Iz." Michael happily accepts her hug, and after a second, they pull Max in, too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Isobel pulls back first. "Happy Festival. But don't think I didn't notice. You were </span>
  <em>
    <span>late</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Michael. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Over an hour</span>
  </em>
  <span> late."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael rolls his eyes and holds up his bag. "Yeah, but I got something."</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p><span>"The Iron Republic? You're kidding right? No one in their right mind ventures that far north." Kyle did not train for this. He is skilled in the art of healing, setting broken bones, stitching lacerations, operating to save lives. He is, in fact, not at all prepared to sit on a lumpy couch, sandwiched between his childhood best friend and said friend's older brother, and learn that his best friend's father had </span><em><span>sold</span></em> <em><span>his</span></em> <em><span>soul</span></em><span> to a Devil in exchange for an abandoned prison in the Iron Republic.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The idea that Jesse Manes had rid himself of his soul to serve some purpose is not ludicrous in the slightest. It honestly makes some sort of sense. But what in the Bazaar's name does he need a prison for?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gregory hops up and begins to pace in the small space Alex calls a living room. "I don't know what Dad is doing. But my source tells me his prison is practically a fortress, and he's never seen a prisoner transport coming or going."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle shares a look with Alex at this, any implications of Gregory's information disturbing, to say the least. "Can you tell us who your source is?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The elder Manes, predictably, shakes his head. "Not yet. Not 'til he's safe. But I trust him."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex, apparently tired of sitting on his terrible couch and absorbing information, stands up. Kyle notes that the time between school and the Captain's rank certainly improved his ability to command a room. "Ok, so we need our own eyes on the place. Recon, figure out what we're dealing with, and we'll go from there."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll get word to my contact. We're going to have to time this right." Gregory nods goodbye before pulling his long coat tighter around himself and setting out into the squall. Alex shuts the door after him, taking care to latch it firmly, then turns to Kyle, whose face plainly shows his wide-eyed disbelief.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You don't have to get involved."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle shakes his head. "If Gregory's right? If there's some sort of secret prison? We have to do something. And those prisoners have been locked up since. . ." He trails off, pinches the bridge of his nose as he tries to process what he's just learned. He startles when Alex puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"For now, we wait to hear back from Greg's contact."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You know, this is not what I expected when I came all the way over here in this weather? I even stopped by the Night Market before coming." He huffs a humorless laugh. "I didn't bring anything to dismantle a conspiracy with in my medkit."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Night Market?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle rolls his eyes. "The Festival of the Night Jasmine is today, Alex." He picks up his bag and roots around in it for a satin pouch he drops into Alex's hands. "Figured you'd forget, so I brought it to you."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex gingerly opens the pouch to find an assortment of sweets, colorful and flower-shaped. He inhales the familiar cherry scent and grins. "These are my favorite. How'd you remember?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You spent most of  your allowance on these as a kid. Tastes don't change that much."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex pops one in his mouth, savoring the tartsweet burst of flavor, then offers the bag to Kyle. "No Greyfields?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mushroom wine? Ugh.”  Kyle picks a piece from the bag, biting off a single petal of it. "So I did actually come here with a purpose. How've you been doing? The leg still--"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"We can do this in the morning." Alex cards a hand through his hair. "Couch is all yours."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He turns on his heel and leaves before Kyle can manage to do more than roll his eyes at the all-too-familiar avoidance.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Broken glass. From a vase or something?" Isobel looks at him sideways with disdain dripping from every pore. "Michael, is this really what kept you so late?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael rolls his eyes. "Just. . . watch." He gently passes a hand over the glass, skimming the smooth surface with his finger tips, as symbols in faint gold dance across the translucent surface.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max leans in. "Where did you find this?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Right around where someone found us."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"So you're saying this could be from. . . " Isobel trails off, a manicured fingertip hovering over the glass, not touching it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"This might have some of the answers we've been looking for." Michael leans back. "This a good enough reason for being late?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle wakes up screaming. Alex is by his side, rubbing his back and telling him to breathe, but there's a voice scratching at his eardrums. It feels like he's going to implode and explode and every bit of sensation is hyper focused on the voice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"-UN. THE SUN. THE SUN. THE SUN. THE S-"</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"-yle. Kyle. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kyle</span>
  </em>
  <span>!" Alex's concerned face is suddenly directly in front of his. Kyle gasps in a breath.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Who was--" He cuts himself off, wincing. His throat is sore, like he'd been screaming. Alex is frowning, worry clear in the set of his brow.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You woke up screaming about the sun. And then </span>
  <em>
    <span>kept</span>
  </em>
  <span> screaming. Wanna tell me what your dream was about?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle swallows. "I don't know. Something about the Admiralty? And the stars. But not our stars. The real ones, beyond the Cavern." He shakes his head, trying to make the thoughts in his brain come into focus. "This isn't the first time I've had dreams about the Sun or any other star in the High Wilderness. But this was the most real. It felt like something was calling to me."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex hands him a glass of water, brushing the hair out of his face with a gentle hand. "Was it trying to tell you something?"</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<span>"I just remember the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>Judgement</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. An Old Orbit, Fondly Remembered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex climbs the spiral staircase carefully, two cups of Darkdrop Coffee in hand. He's never been much of a chef, but he's confident in his ability to make a cup of coffee strong enough to chase away the dregs of any nightmare. He reaches the top of the lighthouse he calls home, and finds Kyle bundled in a borrowed sweater, leaning against the railing and looking out at the waves. He hands him a mug, then leans against the railing himself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"How long have you been up?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle just shakes his head a little, wrapping his fingers tighter around the mug. "I keep thinking about the dream. And Judgement. Or maybe Judgements? Is it me? Am I being judged?" He drops his head with a mirthless chuckle. "Not sure I'd bet on my chances."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex sips his coffee. "You're a good man, Kyle. You changed. You <em>wanted</em> to change. That has to count for <em>something</em>,"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle doesn't think he has it in him to add eye contact to this conversation, so he stares into his mug instead. "Maybe I've already been judged. Maybe this is my punishment. Dreams of a Sun I've never seen, a voice screaming inside my head. Nightmares about stars in the open sky. I live in a Fallen city. Visions of the surface. . . it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>cruel</span>
  </em>
  <span>." He watches a wave crash against the jetty, sending salt spray high into the air. "And if this is what I deserve? That whoever's judging me decided that this is how I deserve to spend eternity? <em>God</em>, I can't-"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Stop." Alex's voice is quiet but firm. "You don't know that the nightmares are a punishment. Hell, you don't even know if you're the one being judged. Maybe you're the one doing the judging. Maybe we're all being judged by someone or something out there. Who knows? In the meantime, treat the dreams like messages. See if they're willing to say anything more. Rules of the Neath, right?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"If something's talking, listen." Kyle takes a long pull of his coffee, then nods. He finally raises his head to look up at Alex, who smiles in return. "Breakfast at the Crashdown?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex wraps an arm around his shoulders to steer him down the stairs, then conveniently forgets to remind Kyle to leave the sweater at the Lighthouse.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After just about ten years away from home, first at the University, then at the Observatory, Liz figures she owes her father as much quality time as he can stand. Her father, however, is pushing it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, but do I <em>have</em> to?" She asks, her voice sounding more like a whiny teenager and less like the scientist who'd climbed the ranks of the Observatory's crew with lightning speed. "I look--"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"<em>Beautiful</em>, mija, the word you're looking for is <em>beautiful</em>. Now, table three needs their drinks." Arturo shoves a silver tray in her hands and she trudges off, adjusting the ridiculous antennae on her head.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She barely spares the occupants of table three a second glance as she sets hammered metal mugs down. "So, I have a UF-Orange tea and a Vanilla Milky-Way Galaxy Brew. Can I get you anyth--"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Liz?" She finally looks up from her tray at the sound of a familiar voice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Alex? Kyle? It's been so long--"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, it has, how have you been?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She can't stop staring. They look different, of course they look different, ten years will do that to a person, but it's jarring nonetheless. She lets the arm holding the now-empty tray drop loosely to her side and slides into the booth next to Kyle. He shoves over with a movement that's so familiar, she's transported years back. This is why she hates it at home.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Everything's too familiar, everything reminds her of something. And there's no wistful nostalgia, not for her, because as soon as she thinks of a happy memory, sipping shakes with her friends in a booth, she remembers Rosa. Rosa, who'd gone missing and hasn't ever returned. She's not dead, that's the one certainty, because there's no such thing as Death. That was only in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>before</span>
  </em>
  <span>, decades ago, when the city Fell.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She shakes her head a little bit, trying to center herself back in the present. She looks up to see Alex leaning forward, an expression of concern clear in the crease of his eyebrows. Kyle looks equally worried, a hand hovering somewhere around her shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz laughs, even if it's a little watery. Alex leans even further forward while Kyle pulls his hand back to stare at her and her abrupt change of mood. "Ten years and you're still using the same moves, huh?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex frowns. "Moves?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Back when we were kids, Kyle here," she jerks her head toward him with a quirk of her lips, "would drape his arm over the back of the booth behind me. So close to putting his arm around me, but too scared to actually do it."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle huffs at the teasing and crosses his arms. "That was one time, and I was <em>twelve</em>, Liz!" He slouches further into his corner to get a better angle to glare at her, when he spots another familiar face at the bar. "Hang on, is that Max Evans?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max has changed the least. And it's comforting. He's a little taller, broader in the shoulders, gruffer in demeanor, but he still stutters a little when he meets her eyes and fidgets with his hands when he's nervous and still so, so genuine it makes her smile. He sticks around after everyone else leaves, claims that the Crashdown inspired him to get some more writing done. He's the last one left after the restaurant closes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She puts a shake down in front of him, tugging off the alien antenna as she sits down across from him. "Kitchen closed half an hour ago, but I can still whip up a mean shake."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max looks up with a start, finally looking up and around and noticing that the restaurant was empty of everyone except for the two of them. "Oh my god, Liz, I am so sorry, your shift must have ended a while ago, I'll go and --"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Max." She stops him with a hand on his arm. "Stay?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He smiles and takes a sip of the shake. "Wanna share?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The zee is calmer tonight. But a calmer zee is disquieting in its own way. It feels like she's waiting for something, building up to a storm or something else powerful, destructive. For now, he sits looking out at the place where the lighthouse's beam gets lost in the fog and dark with a quill in hand. The words burn a little hotter today, for some reason. Maybe they feel as unsettled as he does right now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The lyrics flow, though. Something like song. Old orbits, fondly remembered, and the gentle burn of a painful memory, some words about the sounds of the past crashing into the present. The pages catch on fire, briefly. He blows them out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sharing a shake is a bad idea. Liz looks up at him through long, dark lashes every time she takes a sip, and every time he takes a pull of the sugary concoction, he thinks about how her lipstick is on the straw, and how maybe a little bit is on him, too. Like she's marked him. She's already done that, in indelible invisible ink across his soul, but she doesn't know that. Couldn't possibly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And she'd left. She'd needed to find distance, away from town and its gossip and everything else that threatened to bury her. But it had hurt nonetheless. Liz had been close enough to visit, though the Observatory was in the far reaches of the Cavern. She never had.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But now she was back, and she still looked at him like that, and his heart still skipped a beat every time he locked eyes with her. That had to mean something, right?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a last sip and pushes the glass toward her. She finishes the shake, chases the last drop on her lips with her tongue. He can't tear his eyes away. And then she pushes the empty shake to the side and leans in, and he leans in too, tilting his head a bit, meeting her in the middle. Her eyes flutter shut seconds before his follow suit. They're so close, breathing the same air and she's about to close the atom of space between them when the sky starts to fall with a tremendous <em>crash</em>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max acts purely on instinct, reaching across the table and diving for cover with Liz in his arms. The glass, piercing through the roof of the Crashdown, slicing down into the booths and tables that had been filled with people not two hours ago, shatters as it lands. Max tries to cover Liz with his body to the best of his ability. He's shaking from the adrenaline, the fear as glass continues to shatter all around him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's all he can hear, it's all he can see, and all he can think about is the woman in his trembling arms. This is her home. And she’s a hopefully-sturdy tabletop away from being sliced to bits in it. Glassfall is rare, more an urban legend than anything else. There are tales, there are always tales of the Cavern raining iridescent shards down onto her citizens, but it hadn't happened in Max's lifetime. It's all consuming, a din of shattering glass and tearing leather and crumbling plaster until finally, finally it stops.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max finally lets out a breath, loosens his grip on Liz just a little bit. "Liz? I think it's over." There's no response. She hasn't moved. "Liz?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls off his jacket and lays her down on it, carefully avoiding the shattered glass on the ground. She's so, so still. She’s not moving, her breaths barely rasping in and out of her slack jaw.  She </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not now, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>There's a razor thin shard of glass embedded in her chest, and he pulls it out, pressing a hand against the wound, desperately. He's shaking again, tears spilling down his face as he shouts, screams, something anguished and scared. His hand glows and her skin stitches back together beneath it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sits back when she takes a gasping inhale. There are rules of the Neath. And the first one is that those who die in the Neath can never leave. There's no way out of the Cavern, so this is a strange rule, but the idea of Liz being trapped like that was horrifying. Elizabeth Ortecho, all vibrance and motion and light should not be tied down in the darkness by something as insignificant as Death.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"It's Gregory. Ring me back. Please?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey. It's me, again. Greg, I mean. Please, just, as soon as you get this message, call me."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Look, there have been. . . developments. We need to talk"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gregory paces the length of his living room, over and over and over again, tapping the bell end of the bronze receiver against his palm. No one's picking up, though the line's ringing. He needs to hear his voice, know he's okay. And he needs more information, information that only Clay could possibly have. He trusts his brother, but he doesn't trust the people he's around, and there's an awful gnawing in his gut right now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz's hands shake as they press against her chest. "What. . . "</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She stops, looking around the Crashdown in pieces on the ground beside her. The furniture's all but destroyed, the roof has gaping holes in it so big that they can see entire constellations up on the Cavern's ceiling, and the floor's not even visible under all the glass and debris. Liz's hands fly to her mouth and her eyes well up with tears as she takes in her home in ruins. Max is quick to wrap his arms around her again, steadier this time. He runs a hand up and down her back soothingly as he feels her shake against his shoulder, but all he can think about is how much she knows. He trusts her, he does, but there are some secrets that shouldn't ever be told, and his is one of them. But he'd exposed himself in a fit of desperation and he doesn't even know what the consequences will be.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz pulls away a little as she calms down. "Max, what did you <em>do</em>?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She stands, stepping away from him, looking for something in the glass littering the floor. His eyes find it a second before hers do and his heart sinks into his boots. She lifts up the thin shard with a shaky hand, one end dripping red with blood. "<em>Max</em>," she says, evenly, carefully. "<em>What did you do</em>?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The piece glows in her hand, multi-colored and iridescent. He hedges a little closer, cautious, ever so cautious, and reaches out a tentative hand for the glass. As he touches it, symbols dance across its surface, gold and beautiful. It's like the piece Michael had brought to the Festival, but alive somehow. And it had nearly killed Liz.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. An Unmappable Direction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She's seen this look on her dad's face exactly once before. Utter devastation, a speechless sort of shock and disbelief. She can remember clearly the night almost a decade ago when Rosa hadn't come home, when the sheriff had knocked on the door as the dawnlight faded in, hat in hand, to tell them that there had been an accident deep in the labyrinthine passages of the Bazaar, that Rosa was Lost and would likely never be found again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This time, she'd like to think she can be strong for him, to be someone for him to lean on. He deserves that much, at least. So she grabs a broom, starts sweeping. The melody of jagged pieces of shattered glass crashing against one another breaks him from his stunned stillness and he wraps her in a fierce hug. She drops the broom to hug him back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm so <em>thankful</em> that you're safe," he says voice shaking. "I don't know what I'd do if. . ."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He trails off and she squeezes him tighter, trying not to think about the shard of glass stained with her blood.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Me too," she says. "If you'd been home, you would have--"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She can't think about it. The second floor of their home is all but gone. Arturo would have been cut to ribbons if he'd been asleep in his bed, and that's a fate worse than oblivion in a place with no Death. He presses a kiss to the side of her head as he pulls away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"We will rebuild."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max can't sit still. He's trying, he really is, but there's an energy thrumming through his body right now that doesn't really lend itself to sitting still. Isobel's given up on getting him to start talking before Michael shows up, so she watches him pace like an anxious caged tiger.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael finally swaggers through the door, a full half hour late, and Max descends on him, immediately.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Did you bring it?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael holds up his bag like a shield. "In here. Why'd you want to see the glass again?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max holds out his hand impatiently, just about bouncing on the balls of his feet until the glass is in his outstretched palm. "I was at the Crashdown last night. During the glassfall. And there was this shard of glass that looked like this one. And I touched it and it glowed and it was <em>beautiful</em> but it nearly killed Liz Ortecho and I think your glass might be the same material."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He traces a hand reverently, expectantly over the translucent surface.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing happens. It's like the night of the Festival, inert and silent. Nothing like the dancing gold symbols over iridescent colors. Michael frowns. "Did you do something different last night?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He scratches his head with his free hand. "No? Liz held it out to me, and when I touched it, it sort of. . .came to life."  His face darkens as he thinks about that night.  “It was covered in her blood.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe it’s the blood? It needs a sacrifice or something? But that kind of magic doesn’t really show its face in the City.” Michael steps closer, reaching out a hand.  “Or maybe you need two people? Like you have to complete the circuit."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing happens.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They try every combination of the three of them, but the glass stays dull. Michael sighs, looking at both of his siblings in turn.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Looks like it's time to pay Liz Ortecho a visit."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Alex Manes, here in the City? Never thought I'd see it."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex rolls his eyes and picks his way across the crowded tavern to hug Maria DeLuca. She pours him a drink with a dull purple color and he knows better than to question what she's served him. "Figured I owed you a visit. And since you hate coming out to the Lighthouse. . ."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She makes a sour face at him as he sips his drink. It's subtle, floral and smoky and bitter, and he savors the taste. "It's too damn far away and you know I hate the waves over there."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tilts his head to concede the point. "I need music help."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maria smiles and leans a chin on her hand. "Always. I love seeing you talk about music, you know? You. . . I don't know, glow."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Like a lantern? Or are we talking street lamp, here?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She chucks a bar towel at him. "No, not literally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>glowworm</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I mean your aura. It sort of lights up all iridescent and glowy. You look happy."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He ducks his head and smiles. "Even when I'm writing my sad, angsty music?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Even then."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max doesn't think he can face Liz quite so soon, so he splits off from his siblings at Main Street and heads over to the medical center. It's after hours, so he's hoping he doesn't meet anyone as he makes his way to the Archives.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rumor has it, back in the early days after the Fall, some over-enthusiastic doctor had taken samples of the Cavern. The floor, the ceiling, the pillars, even pieces of the Forgotten Districts. No one had ever made those reports public, but if they existed, they'd be in the City Scientific Archives. With any luck, he'll slip in, find what he needs, and duck out without running into anyone or setting off any alarms.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He has absolutely no luck. He's halfway down the main hallway when someone calls his name. He bites back a groan of frustration as he turns to see Kyle in his white coat waving at him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Max!" He jogs up to meet him, shoes squeaking slightly against the freshly cleaned tile. "Is everything alright? The after-hours clinic is back that way." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing in exactly the opposite direction of where he needs to go.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Uh." He tries to think of an excuse to be here and comes up blank. "I was just. . ." He's a writer, <em>damnit</em>, why can't he come up with something? "I was trying to. . ."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Max?" Kyle is directly in front of him now, looking at him with concern. "Did you hit your head?" His eyes widen. "You were at the Crashdown during glassfall weren't you? Here, I can help you get to the clini--"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"No!" He says this a little more forcefully than strictly necessary, pulling away a little. He's avoided doctors his whole life and he's damned if he's going to break that streak now. "I don't want to go to the clinic."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Max. . ." Kyle's voice is gentle, soothing. Probably the voice he uses on difficult patients. But Max is not anyone's patient and never will be because it's a very thin line between patient and lab rat when you don't quite fit the bill of any creature known to the Neath, human or otherwise.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s one trunk.  One trunk, thick and strong and only a little scratched from the glassfall, full of mementos and photos and clothes and everything else she and her dad had managed to save from the wreckage of the Crashdown.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz runs a hand over its surface, not so smooth anymore, as she waits for a taxi to the temporary lodging she’d managed to find them.  She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>they’ll rebuild.  But seeing her </span>
  <em>
    <span>home </span>
  </em>
  <span>in </span>
  <em>
    <span>pieces </span>
  </em>
  <span>is just--</span>
  <em>
    <span>too much.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Liz Ortecho?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz wipes a rogue tear from her eye as a voice calls out her name.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s been a while since you’ve been back.  My name’s Isobel.  This is Michael.  We’d like to talk.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max ends up in Kyle's office, a tiny room with two chairs, a desk full of papers, an overstuffed cabinet, and not much else. Kyle shines a penlight in each of his eyes in turn and asks him more questions than Max can really keep track of.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle leans back in his chair. "Honestly, it's incredible that both of you managed to survive in one piece."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max shifts uncomfortably. "I managed to get us both under the table."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Even then!" Kyle leans forward just a little bit. "I've been looking into past glassfall, you know, and they're so </span>
  <em>
    <span>rare</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the last one was over twenty years ago, but they cause </span>
  <em>
    <span>total</span>
  </em>
  <span> destruction. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Usually</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Twenty years ago? I don't remember that."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"A little over twenty, really. Back in '97, but somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. Never really made headlines because it never really did much."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max frowns. "Do you know why they happen?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle shrugs. "No cause from what I can tell. Just perks of the Neath, I guess. There might be some -- hang on did you see that?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"See what?" He tries to twist around to see out the tiny window on the office door.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I thought I saw someone walk past. There shouldn't be anybody around here that isn't wearing an ID badge and I didn't see one on them."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't have an ID badge."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well. Potential head injury takes priority."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maria is quick to sweep Liz into a hug as soon as she walks through the doors to the tavern. "Are you ok? How's Arturo doing?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz squeezes back, "We're okay. Papi wasn't home, thankfully."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maria links elbows with her and drags her to the table where Alex is sitting. "Sit down, I already got us some drinks."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Liz," Alex starts, "How--"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz raises a hand to stop him. "If one more person asks me how I am, I'm going to scream. Papi and I are </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to be distracted. Alex, what's going on up in the dark and stormy tower you live in?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex smiles, tilted and just a little sarcastic. "I get my best sad emo writing done locked in my emo tower."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"New songs?" Liz makes grabby hands for the notebook, which Alex slides over with a huff. Liz and Maria are probably the only two people on the planet both above and below the Cavern ceiling that are allowed to even touch his notebook.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She flicks through it, reading the little snatches of lyrics he's got written down. "I like this one," she says, pushing the book back at him and blowing on her fingertips to cool them down. "Hum a little for me?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex raises an eyebrow at her, but she pouts just a little in retaliation. "<em>Fine</em>," he says, all teenage petulance again, and starts humming the intro. Liz props up her chin on her hand and closes her eyes as she listens. Maria settles back in her booth to watch them both.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Alex stops, Maria leans over the table to squeeze his hand. "That was beautiful."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz nods. "I loved it too. It felt. . .warm, somehow."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maria tilts her head, consideringly. "When Alex sings, both of your auras go the same color. Sort of sparkly and iridescent. It's pretty."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex squints a little at Liz. "How do you read someone's aura?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Look for color. Around the edges, sort of. Concentrate."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex squints even more, scrunching up his face as he focuses. "I think I can kind of see it. Liz is sparkly around the edges."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"So are you," Maria says. "You match."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What about you, Maria?”  Liz squints at her like she’s concentrating, but with the alcohol in her system, her gaze isn’t quite focused to be reading anything.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maria points warningly at Alex instead.  “Alex Manes, if you </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare </span>
  </em>
  <span>try to read my aura. . . ”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The lights start flickering in Kyle's office. Both he and Max look up at the bulbs embedded in the ceiling. "Power issues?" Max suggests.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle stands up and walks to the door, trying to peek out the window to see if any of the other light fixtures were blinking on and off as well. Whatever he sees causes him to freeze, then back away from the door slowly, coming back to the desks and pulling Max as far away from the door as he can.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's not much. "What did you see?" Max whispers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle swallows. "It's <em>completely</em> dark out there. No light, not even the emergency ones or the glowtape along the fire exit routes. Just. . . <em>blackness</em>. But there's someone out there. They're kind of speckled with something that's glowing." He looks at Max. "This can't be good, we need to call someone."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max plasters himself against the wall furthest from the door while Kyle dials someone and explains the situation in a few hushed words. As he hangs up, the door explodes in. Max pulls him under the desk, and wonders how he's managed to be in this situation twice in as many days.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There's silence after the shower of dust and crumbling drywall settles. Kyle doesn't have any sort of weapon and neither does he, and the kind of person with the power to turn half a wall to dust like that isn't the sort of person that can be fought with bare hands.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They both hold their breath, waiting.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing, save for the gentle <em>buzz</em> of the flickering overhead lights.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It feels like forever, where nothing is happening, just silence, with dust in the air and dark on the other side of what's left of the wall.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They tense when they hear boots approaching. A single pair, thumping down the tiled hallway with a slightly irregular gait. The boots crunch in the rubble at the entrance to the office.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Kyle?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle breathes out a heavy sigh of relief and wrenches himself out from under the desk, offering a hand to Max to pull him out as well. "Alex! You came."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Of course I did," Alex says, moving into the office, surveying the damage. He freezes when he sees some lines burnt onto the remains of the doorframe and Max does too when he follows Alex's eyeline.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"<em>The labyrinth shackling the screaming cosmos.</em>" Alex speaks in a strange monotone, like it's not his own voice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You can read those symbols?" Max asks, shocked.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex shakes his head a little like he's clearing water from his ears. "<em>No</em>, no, I don't think I can, but I looked at it and I just. . . </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Writ Upon the Heavens</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"Max Evans, beating me to the tavern. Never thought I'd see the day."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You're just <em>late</em>, as usual." Max scoffs as he slides a beer across the table to Michael.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael pulls off his hat and studies his brother as he takes a sip. "So what's got you all. . . <em>pensive</em>?" He says 'pensive' likes it's a dirty word. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not</span>
  </em>
  <span> that he's ever had a problem with dirty words.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max leans back, drumming his fingertips against the table edge. "Yesterday, I met this guy--"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Welcome to the club."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Not like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I was in Kyle Valenti's office and someone broke down the door and left behind this symbol like the one on your glass and the one at the Crashdown. I didn't see who it was, we were taking cover under his desk but--"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"So you met a guy, ended up under his desk, and --"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Michael</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I was trying to break into the archives, like we talked about, but then Kyle caught me, assumed I had a head injury, and then we were talking in his office. Then someone messed with the lights, exploded the door in, and then left behind this symbol. And then, Kyle's friend, Alex, shows up, and he knew what the symbol meant. It sort of. . . glowed when he touched it."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Like it did with Liz?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you think they're like us?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Wouldn't Iz have been able to sense them, then?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael tilts his head in concession, picking up his beer and taking a long pull. "Maybe they've been. . .touched by something alien. Even if they are human. Maybe they got exposed to something, or interacted with something, or lived somewhere, and got. . .infected?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Infected?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Not exactly, maybe stained or marked, or something."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe." It's an uncomfortable thought, and he doesn't really like the idea of being a </span>
  <em>
    <span>stain</span>
  </em>
  <span>. "We should talk to Alex. I got his number."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael smirks at him and Max rolls his eyes in response. "Do you want me to call him here or not?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael, Max, and this new Mysterious Stranger, Alex, huddle in the back booth of the tavern. Michael glances furtively around before pulling out his piece of colored glass and sliding it over to Alex.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex reaches out a gentle hand and cautiously brushes the pad of his finger against the smooth surface. It reacts immediately, lighting up in a multicolored glow, the symbols standing out in gold against it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You've been touched!" Michael exclaims softly, watching the dancing symbols in awe.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Well," says the Mysterious Stranger -- Alex -- eyeing up Michael with a sharp look. "Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>yet</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max coughs. "Has anything strange happened to you, anything that might explain why the glass reacts to you like that?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex shrugs. "Dunno. I traveled around a lot as a kid. My dad was in the Forces."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max leans forward. "Have you ever experienced a glassfall?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"No, but my friend was just caught in one. Liz?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You know Liz?" Michael asks, confused. He's never met Alex, but he seems to know other people in the City.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I used to live in the City. Liz has always been one of my best friends. I left when I was around seven? Eight? Something like that. Visited a couple of times in high school, but never for long. Never really had a place here. Moved to the Lighthouse a few months ago."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael nods, once. "So you haven't been around </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> like the glass?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex shakes his head. "I don't think I've ever seen something like this until I saw the symbol in Kyle's office. And it's like I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> what it meant." He traces a finger across the glass and Michael mirrors him, both of them watching the symbols light up. Michael flicks his eyes up, watching Alex instead of the symbols for a moment, until Alex raises his eyes, too. The two can't seem to look away from each other and Max feels the urge to leave.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Is the symbol still there?" He asks, startling both Alex and Michael into looking at him. "In Kyle's office, I mean."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex clears his throat. "Yeah, should be. They're scheduled to repair that wall two days from now."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>". . . I'm gonna go check it out."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max knocks on what's left of the door frame in Kyle's office. The man in question looks up from where he's sitting on the floor, pulling files out of his cabinet and stacking them in boxes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Max? Everything ok?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Just wanted to look at the symbol again. Do you mind?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle waves him off and turns back to the cabinet, so Max kneels down by the doorframe to get a better view of the symbol. It's some assortment of lines and circles, and it's not glowing, not anymore, but it had under Alex's touch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"How do you two know each other? Alex, I mean."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle turns around at the question, still sorting through folders. "We've been friends for so long I can't even remember how we met. Our dads were friends even before we were born."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Did he ever go to school?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle frowns, slightly. "Yeah, he did, but he stopped when his dad started moving around more. Right around when you and your sister started at our school, I think. Probably why you never met."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"He mentioned that. And that he'd visited a couple of times in high school."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"He did." Kyle turns around to face Max and leans against the cabinet with a heavy sigh. "He had the opportunity to move back to the City but I was an awful kid and basically single-handedly convinced him that life would be better anywhere but here."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"But you're friends now, aren't you?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I did my medical training in the Arbor of the Roses, but when I moved back here, I wrote him this long letter, apologizing, and I never expected him to respond, but he did. We sort of became friends again after." He clears his throat. "Why all the questions about Alex?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"He's the first person I've met that could read the symbols. It just seems like he might have some answers." Max huffs a laugh, leaning back against the door frame. "He's also making </span>
  <em>
    <span>intense</span>
  </em>
  <span> eye contact with Michael right now, so I figured the question-and-answer session was done for the night and it was time for me to get lost."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"So you came here for a different question and answer session?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max shrugs. "Well, one of us had to stay focused on the symbols, and I doubt it's Alex and Michael right now."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"So." Michael drawls out the single syllable, stretching it as far as it'll go. "What's life like up in a lighthouse?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex leans back into the plush booth, fingers playing against the lip of his still-cold bottle. "Peaceful. Except when it storms. Kinda lonely. But beautiful, waking up to the waves everyday hasn't gotten old yet. And, honestly, it's a good spot for writing."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You're a novelist?" Michael asks, leaning in to rest his elbows on the table.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Song writer. Or, at least, I'm trying."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I'd love to hear it sometime."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex shakes his head. "I never really play in public. Just to the walls of the Lighthouse."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael smirks up at him. "Guess I'll have to visit."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex licks his lips, gives in to the tipsy impulse. "What are you doing right now?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max is a man who prides himself on being helpful, and by the time he leaves, Kyle only has his two desk drawers left to pack, and he has far too much confidential patient information in those files to let Max near them. He waves a goodnight, then grabs a last box, yawning.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay, one last thing to do, and I finally get to go home." He speaks the words out loud, hoping the universe will make them come true.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before long, the black-and-white text of immunization records and X-rays give way to stormy shades of blue, crashing against each other. There's a dim light under the waves, somewhere to the east, and it seems like it's rising.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle feels a sense of dread. He feels cold all over, and he is, somehow, absolutely sure that if the light surfaces from the water, something bad will happen.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But there's nothing he can do.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All he can do is watch as the light grows closer and closer. Closer.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He awakens to his office with a gasp. He tries to calm his breathing, willing his heart to slow. There's a lingering taste of salt on his lips and a hunger in his belly that he can't quite explain.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The zee is peaceful, today. Alex unlocks his front door to let Michael in, grinning when Michael grabs his hand to pull him in behind him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"So where does the magic happen?" Michael asks, slowly turning in place, taking in Alex's living room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex tugs his hand to the spiral staircase. "Upstairs."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael follows and lets himself be steered to sit on an old trunk in the corner. Alex picks up a guitar and sits next to him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Um." He laughs a little, suddenly nervous. "What do you want to hear?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael bumps their shoulders together. "Whatever you want to play me."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex looks at him and sees sincerity, so he takes a fortifying breath and starts singing. It's a gentle song, about love and things written upon the heavens and stories so inevitable they feel cosmic. He loses himself in the music, but when the song ends he turns to see Michael gazing at him with something glinting in his eye. Is it admiration? Adoration? Alex can't say, but his body moves of his own accord, leaning toward Michael, tilting his head slightly, letting his eyes flutter shut as Michael does the same. They both exhale into their first kiss and it feels like coming home. A forever later, Michael breaks away, rests his head against Alex's, drinking him in. Alex pulls the guitar off his neck and threads a hand through Michael's curls, pulling him closer for another kiss, hungrier, more heated this time.  Michael sneaks a hand around his waist, just at the hem of his shirt, teasing at his skin.  Alex pulls away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait. I want to show you something first.”  Alex presses a last kiss to Michael’s lips before leading him out to the deck of the lighthouse by his hand.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The night air is cool, but there’s a clear sky, an infinity in the phosphorescence on the Cavern ceiling blinking in the darkness.  Michael holds onto the railing, leaning forward just a bit to let the barest hint of zee spray touch his face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s beautiful.”  He pulls Alex close, wraps an arm around him as he looks up at the Cavern ceiling.  “I can see why you like it out here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex cups his face with a gentle hand, pulling him in for a kiss.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gregory likes maps. He likes the idea of knowing where he's going, of planning for different terrain, of plotting a route ahead of time. He'd always been the Manes kid in charge of the map on long drives. Clay had snuck Gregory three maps, one of the Surface, one of the roads of the Neath, and one of the False Constellations on the Cavern ceiling. And Gregory is supposed to make sense of it all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to get a visual, so he picks the tallest building in the main part of the City, climbs the fire escape to the roof, and lays out his charts side-by-side on a water tank. He's got his eyes focused on the sky and his mind focused on the maps and he doesn't even hear the clack of heeled boots against the terrace.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You're not supposed to be here." He remembers that voice, he thinks, as he turns around to face the newcomer.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Isobel?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Gregory Manes?" She huffs a laugh. "You're a long way from the barracks."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I just wanted to get some air. See the constellations."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Isobel nods as she steps forward, carefully, deliberately, and Gregory feels vaguely like he's being hunted. Isobel makes a beautiful predator in pink lipstick and a velvet coat. "And you chose my building?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"It was tall." He shrugs. "I climbed the fire escape."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Isobel's nearly toe to toe with him now, and he's rapidly forgetting how to breathe, but she glances over his shoulder at his maps and gasps.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Is that a map of the Surface?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. A Colophon Printed on Living Skin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Michael bullies Max into hosting a party. It's not a party, it's really a knowledge sharing session, but Max is required to clean his home and provide snacks and alcohol and rearrange his living room furniture to accommodate a group, so it's basically a party. One by one, everyone who's part of this weirdly tangled web makes their way in. Michael, Iz, Alex, Kyle, and Alex's brother, Gregory. And of course, Liz. Liz who he hasn't seen in over a week, the same Liz who might be avoiding him. Or maybe he's avoiding her. It's hard to tell at this point, but just one glance in her direction is enough to make him feel a little bit like he's having a heart attack.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex takes charge immediately. "So we've got a lot of moving pieces, and we need to share some information here." He pulls out a notebook from the pocket of his coat and lays it on the table, flicks open a pen and poises it to write. "So let's start with the glass."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Two hours of bickering and comparing notes later, Michael's <em>exhausted</em>. Because everyone else could spill their guts, but he, Max, and Iz had to be careful not to give away too much. Their secret isn't one to be dumped out on Max's living room coffee table to a crowd.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He glances at Alex, who looks equally tired. "Want to come to my place?" he asks, running his hands through his curls, which are beginning to frizz from him repeating the motion. "I have something to show you."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex agrees, and when they're both standing in the bunker, Michael suddenly feels more nervous than he's ever felt in his life. He grabs Alex's hand before he can psych himself out and pulls him along to the main lab table at the center of the room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of the pieces of glass, all dull color right now, rest on the table, brightening up as Alex runs a hand over them. Alex leans down to get his ear closer to the glass. "You know, I didn't notice before because it's never been this quiet, but the glass makes a sort of noise."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael tilts his head in silent question.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Like a tone, sort of." Alex hums, trying to match the pitch. The letters, still lit up in bright gold, slow their movement across the glass. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>A colophon printed on living skin.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Alex's voice goes flat, monotone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"One of the symbols, I think." Alex shakes his head and blinks hard, trying to come back to himself. Michael touches his shoulder gently.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You ok? You looked kind of. . . lost for a second there.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine.  I want to figure out more of these symbols, these pieces.  How they’re connected to the two of us.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex leans up to kiss him and Michael responds enthusiastically. "You're incredible," he breathes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz hangs back as everyone troops out, hair glinting in the light coming in from the door, looking golden and so perfect Max can't stand to look at her for too long but also can't look away. "Max?" she says, a little hesitantly, playing with the fraying cuffs of her sweater. "Can we talk?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max agrees, easily agrees, because there are few things he won't do for Liz Ortecho. They end up on his couch, facing each other, a respectable distance between them, although the distance is covered by a blanket that they're both sharing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Max," Liz starts, reaching for his hand. "I am not afraid of you."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Liz, what I did. . . what you </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw. . .”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he trails off.  Max searches for the words, and when he can’t find any, stands up abruptly and starts to pace.  “Liz, I need to tell you something.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz is looking at him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>seeing </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, and there’s no fear in her eyes and that’s the only thing that lets him keep going.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not like you.  Not, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>human</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or any of the other species of the Neath.  I don’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>where </span>
  </em>
  <span>I come from, just waking up in the desert, miles out of the City, when I was seven.  And I can do </span>
  <em>
    <span>things.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Like heal me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Like heal you.  Like spark out a light fixture or overload a fuse.”  He looks down at his hand, stops pacing for a second.  “I don’t know what I am.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz stands up and walks the two steps to him, takes his hands in hers.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I am not afraid, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Max.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But. . .”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, maybe you can do some destructive things, but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>saved </span>
  </em>
  <span>my </span>
  <em>
    <span>life </span>
  </em>
  <span>that night.  How can I be afraid of someone whose first instinct, even with all this <em>power</em>, is to help?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle has had enough excitement to last him through at least the next five years. He's ready to take a shower, change into his comfiest clothes, then sleep for at least a full twenty-four hours. He's already envisioning how comfortable his bed is going to be, and he nearly steps on the ornate envelope that's clearly been slid under his door. He picks it up, turning it to see his name scratched on the front in beautiful calligraphy. The other side bears a seal, but not one that's easily identifiable, some marking in deep maroon wax. He peels it open to find a card on gold-edged paper, inviting him to a ball for the Celebration of the Dream-Rose. He tosses it on the small table in his entry way and makes a beeline for his shower.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Isobel sorts through her mail once a day. She sits at her desk, her elegant and lethally sharp pen knife in hand, and takes care of it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's a mix of bills, advertisements, and work correspondence. They get put into three piles, filed away neatly and immediately. The envelope in her hand catches her eye, though. Beautiful penmanship on the cover, a maroon seal bearing a mark she can't recognize, and a lack of any hint of the contents all add to the intrigue surrounding this particular piece of mail. She uses her knife to lift the seal and pulls out the card to find an invitation to a ball. She taps her finger against the cardstock, considering.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you mean, the ball's a trap?" </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gregory's back to pacing in his living room. He's going to need to replace his carpet soon enough if this doesn't get resolved. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Hold on, there's </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> planned?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck.  He needs to call Alex.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. An Elaborate but Fragile Artifice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Kyle's hands are steady and gentle as they straighten the wine-hued tie at Alex's throat. Alex fiddles with his pearly cufflinks and steers his mind firmly away from the thought that Kyle is one of the two, maybe three people he'd trust to have hands anywhere near his neck. That thought is a vine that will twist into anxiety, into thinking about the million different ways tonight could go wrong and end up with someone's hands at his throat for reasons far more nefarious than straightening his tie. Its tendrils trail traitorously back years and years, for the number of times the breath's been barred from his lungs by way of hands at his neck, strong, stronger than him, squeezing to show just how much stronger. He can't think about that. Not tonight, not ever if he wants to keep moving forward on what's left of his own two legs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He mentally snips the vine and the root, and burns whatever's left. Kyle steps back, appraising Alex's suit of muted blush-toned silk-cotton, a soft shirt of ivory under it. He nods, satisfied. "I think you're all good."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle takes a fortifying breath as he tugs his jacket straight and surveys the ballroom in front of him. It's beautiful, bits of mirror and crystal reflecting the light, soft gold and pink hues everywhere. He offers an arm to Alex as they make their way down stone steps into the tiled ballroom, sunken low into the ground. Liz and Max are already here, tucked into a corner, crystal flutes in hand. The party's making its way to full swing, an orchestra playing dance tunes that echo off the walls.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He and Alex pick their way through the crowd, making their way over to them. He loses Alex somewhere in the thron, jostled between a man in a deep red tunic and a woman in a pink one of the same style. He turns in a full circle, trying to find Alex again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He ends up face to face with a hooded figure, just like the one he'd caught a glimpse of outside his office. The figure knocks his shoulder as it moves past him, moving quickly. Kyle follows, a sense of dread curling in his gut.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz could almost be convinced she's on a lovely date. She's got Max on her arm, she's wearing a beautiful red dress, and the orchestra is playing one of her favorite tunes. But she can't quite give herself over to the romance of it all because she and Max both have to be vigilant. Something's going to go down tonight, according to Alex and Greg, and they have to stop it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex starts when he feels a hand on his elbow. He's looking for Kyle, who's managed to get lost in the crowd, but he ends up toe to toe with Michael instead. "Wanna take a spin on the dance floor?" Michael asks, holding out a hand.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Not exactly a great dancer," Alex says, taking the hand anyway.  “Can’t even say I have two left feet.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Michael pulls him to the ballroom floor where Greg and Isobel are already twirling with the crowds. If this wasn't a mission, Alex could see himself getting lost in the feeling of Michael's hand at the small of his back, the feel of callouses on his hand, the way even their breaths are in sync. But it is a mission, so he reminds himself to stay focused, remember the intel Greg had given him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Alex?" Michael says, leaning in so very close to whisper in Alex's ear. "Think we got company." He deftly twirls them around so Alex can get eyes on a hooded figure, skirting around the edges of the party. "They don't look like they're here for the wine."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex nods, gets his mouth as close to Michael's ear as he can manage. "Follow my lead?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Always."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex pulls him in for a kiss, soft and slow but heated nonetheless, then tugs him by the hand out of the crowd and toward the back hallway where the figure had disappeared to. Michael's brain catches up slowly and he tries to look the part of someone about to hook up with a lover in a back corridor, and not like someone following a mysterious figure into the dark.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Isobel is more than happy to keep Gregory in her arms as she dances, with an open mind to keep stock of everything going on at the party. But her feet pick up something before her brain does, the marble floor beneath her starting to shake. She can hear something whistle in the air, like chimes, and her eyes widen when she realizes what it is. She sends out a mental </span>
  <em>
    <span>push</span>
  </em>
  <span> to everyone there to evacuate, and pulls Gregory along to do the same.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The first shard of glass tears its way through the flimsy canopy that covers the open ceiling of the ballroom. It shatters on the ground with a tremendous crash in the dead center of the room. The shards come quickly after that, a din of twinkling, shattering, absolutely lethal glass, falling from the sky. Isobel hunkers in a stone alcove with Gregory, Everyone seems to have gotten out or taken shelter, but it's hard to tell. The glassfall is so thick she can't see through to the other side of the ballroom, a storm of sharp shards slicing through everything in their path until they shatter and litter the ground like fallen glitter.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's hard to tell how long it goes, the sound of shattering reaching a crescendo before it finally slows to a halt. There's a moment of silence, of stillness, before faint crunching starts, people crawling out of their hiding spaces to survey the destruction. Gregory offers her a hand to help her up and she takes it, rising as gracefully as she can, looking around.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex and Michael sprint out of their shelter in a back hallway when they see one of the hooded figures making their way through the passageway to the storage rooms at the back. Alex yanks Michael back against the wall as they slowly creep around to see what is happening. There's a circle of hooded figures, a glowing stone in between all of them, though the stone's light is starting to dim. The same symbols from Michael's glass, from Kyle's office door appear on the surface of the stone, dancing across the light. There's someone speaking, not yelling but speaking dangerously low and Alex feels an all too familiar ice creep down his spine.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"People started running before the first shard fell." The Voice says. "Someone must have known what we were doing. Who was it?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The silence that follows is dangerous, like the stillness before a tiger strikes. A single pair of boots echo as they pace slowly around the circle. "When I find out who betrayed me," his voice gets impossibly low, almost a whisper, "I'll make you wish Death was still an option."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>None of the people in the circle make a noise or move a muscle and Alex shivers at how little things have changed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Get out of here." The Voice snaps, "Glassfall this big must have dropped something of use."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There's a chorus of "Yes, Sir!" as the group moves out. Alex grips Michael tight in the shadows, keeping them hidden.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"Alex?" Michael asks softly, when they're alone again. "Do you know them? The way you reacted --"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex swallows hard. "That was my father."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz walks to the center of the ballroom and does a slow turn, surveying the damage. The dance floor is covered in a carpet of shattered glass that crunches under her shoes. Stragglers are hurrying out of the venue, not sparing a glance behind. There are a few bodies lying around the edges of the room, people who couldn't make it to shelter in time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Max comes up behind her, holding a piece of the iridescent glass. "There might be more."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Liz touches it, gently. She hears crunching and turns sharply to see Michael, Alex, and Kyle coming back in, Kyle immediately making a beeline for the wounded. "We need to spread out, search for any pieces there might be left."</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"We're not alone here. We're about to have company." Alex gestures to the door he just walked in through.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll take care of it." Isobel says with a toss of her hair. "You guys keep looking for needles in a needle stack. Gregory, coming?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hours, hours later, they call off the search for more pieces. They end up with three more in hand, making their way to Michael's lab with promises of whiskey and equipment keeping them upright and moving.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, with the four of them, the pieces are responsive, bright and colorful, with the symbols clearly legible. Alex is able to read a few of the pieces, and Michael carefully jots down notes. Time slips by quickly, experimenting with touch and music and words, trying to make the mysterious glass reveal a few more secrets.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kyle is exhausted by the time he finally gets home, slinking into bed just before his alarm to wake up usually goes off. Sleep comes easily, his dreams tinted with the same carmine hues as the ball had been. But the landscape changes. Walls crumble to become twisting passageways, an unending labyrinth overgrown with vines that coil around pillars and doorways like snakes waiting to strike. He knows not to touch them, somehow. He doesn't recognize this place, but there are symbols carved in white against many of the doors, and he knows that he will be able to read some of them, but not all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He moves through the passageways, getting more and more hopelessly lost. He knows he will never find his way out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He ends up at a door, and the symbol is almost too bright to read, but he can recognize a sun and moon pattern with a thorny rose vine curling around it. He reaches out to touch, and wakes up, drenched in a cold sweat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="http://bean-me-up.tumblr.com">Say hello on tumblr!</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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